


Belonging

by untilyesterday



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Rough Sex, Sadomasochism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilyesterday/pseuds/untilyesterday
Summary: “I won’t have to find anyone else,” he told you, voice low and almost hissing as he spoke. “Don’t even try to bullshit me. You’ll never leave.”
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 52





	Belonging

He got off. He got _off_.

You never understood why people didn’t expect it. Ransom Drysdale may not have inherited from his grandfather as he had expected, but his parents had made a tidy living of their own with the backing of the Thrombey fortune. Money almost always won in court; Linda and Richard Drysdale had sat morose and silent in court while the high-priced defense attorney they had bankrolled stood before the jury and explained how they, the parents of young _Hugh_ \-- because that name was more palatable to a jury not made of his actual peers -- had been ruined by his parents.

 _Affluenza_ , they called it. An inability to understand the consequence of his actions or envision a life outside of the luxurious standards in which he had been raised. This handsome, intelligent young man, forever ruined by parents who themselves should have known better.

They were the ones who had done all of the real damage, the ones who had set him on a course for disaster; they had given him everything, never held him accountable for anything. Watched his temper and his narcissism grow, cultivated inside of him a ticking time bomb ready to explode at just the right moment.  
A life without direction.

A life without wealth.

A _beloved_ grandfather stepping in far too late to make a difference. 

Taking away the only future he saw worth having.

The first trial had resulted in a hung jury; the second trial had given him a verdict of ‘not guilty due to diminished mental capacity’. He had cried in court at the reading of the verdict. Crocodile tears. 

First degree murder was dropped to a ruling of voluntary manslaughter. Life in prison became three months in a mental health treatment facility. Of course, his parents were allowed to bankroll that too. There would be no state-run asylum for Ransom. The place where he was remanded held yoga classes and had tennis courts, an Olympic sized swimming pool and sprawling grounds just perfect for use as a putting green.

He stayed for two months of the three month sentence, and then he was free to resume his life. He’d never want for money again; he would be his parents’ sole heir, and he would make millions off television appearances, the use of his likeness in true crime anthology series, a two-book memoir deal that he’d have ghostwritten on the sly, and some under the table dealing for personal items sold to the ‘murder souvenier’ market.

Ransom was still handsome and intelligent, and best of all, he was _free_.

You had seen _that_ coming a mile away. What you had never fathomed, and what you could never understand, however, was your inability to stay away from him.

When Ransom resumed his life, people were still leery. Women would smile at him in bars, flirt, accept the drinks he bought them, but few would stick around much past that. You had been out with some friends, celebrating a new promotion at work, when he caught your eye. He made a great show of checking you out, not hiding in the least the way his eyes drifted up and down your body with obvious interest, and when he finally met your gaze again, he _winked_.

“Oh my god,” Jen had loudly whispered in your ear, too drunk for any sense of propriety. “Do you know who that is?”

He sent you an apple martini; not your typical drink of choice but you had lifted it in silent thanks and smiled back at where he leaned against the bar before downing half of it in one go.

Claire had shaken her head. “You’re flirting with a murderer,” she insisted.

“He got off,” Jen pointed out, too wobbly on her heels to stand anymore. She maneuvered her way onto of the too-high stools at the table you had commandeered, barely keeping herself upright. “So, like… not technically.”

Claire snorted. “Of course he got off. Rich people always get off. He still killed a guy.”

“I thought it was some chick?” Jen responded, frowning.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a drink,” you told them with a laugh. “You know what? I’m going to go thank him in person.”

You’d had too much to drink and were in far too great a mood to be making good decisions. Your friends tried to convince you not to approach him, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. You carried your glass to where he stood, smiling as you leaned one hip against the bar and leaned forward just the slightest bit to give him a better view of your cleavage. It was the least you could do, you thought, and really all you had intended. A little chat. A little flirt. And then a fond goodnight.

But that fond goodnight turned into a surprised good morning.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing in this dump,” Ransom had cooed, blue eyes focused directly on yours, and you were _sunk_. You were all over him in the cab, and he didn’t allow you to leave his place for two full days afterwards. 

_Allow_. You should have known then, what this would become, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Months later and you were living with him full time. You knew it wasn’t out of any sense of obligation or affection on his part, just convenience, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You’d met his parents, Linda smiling and telling you she was so glad her son had found “a nice girl who could see past the trouble’s he’d had”, while asking him privately if he felt it necessary to bring more scrutiny on the family by “slumming it with some floozy he’d picked up in a bar”.

He’d laughed when he told you that -- amused by her words, and by the way they angered you.

“Keep laughing, Ransom,” you told him, glaring. “See if you’ll find anyone else to fuck you when you finally push me out the door for good.”

His expression had changed, all mirth dying away. Eyes gone dark, even threatening. He had reached out quickly and taken your chin in one strong hand, his fingers gripping tightly to the point of pain.

“I won’t have to find anyone else,” he told you, voice low and almost hissing as he spoke. “Don’t even try to bullshit me. You’ll never leave.”

You hated him for it, but he was right. You hated yourself, but you kind of liked it. You _belonged_ to him, and you knew it. It gave you a little thrill, knowing that he was just as aware of it as you were. That he had accepted it -- that he knew you were his forever. 

He didn’t even sleep around anymore. You were all that he needed, because you belonged to him completely and there was nothing in you that could make you leave. Some days, though, he felt it necessary to remind you.

Claire had called and left a message on your phone. He had the password -- of course he did -- and listened to it before you could get to it. Ransom _hated_ Claire; Jen, he said, was just stupid enough to tolerate, but Claire, he insisted, was conniving. She’d never approved of your relationship, or that he had asked you to quit your job and become his personal assistant instead. She just didn’t understand, none of them did.

But hearing her message -- “Her voice fucking grates on me”, he had said -- asking you to “check in” and saying she “hadn’t heard from you in a while, is everything okay?” had pissed him off. He needed you to remember where you belonged.

You were turning off the coffeemaker in the kitchen of his penthouse when you felt his hand creep up the back of your neck and into your hair, gentle at first until he’d threaded his fingers close enough to your scalp to grip tight and yank you back.

“Ransom! What..?!” you gasped in surprise.

He threw your phone onto the kitchen counter. “What exactly is it that you tell your bitch friends about me, huh?” he demanded. “What is it you tell them that makes them call to ‘make sure you’re okay’?”

You sucked in a deep breath, feeling every nerve in your body come alive with the pain in your scalp. “Nothing,” you said quickly. You tried to shake your head, but his firm grip wouldn’t allow for it. 

“Nothing,” Ransom repeated, clearly not impressed. “Nothing. That’s why that bitch Claire keeps calling to check in. Do you tell them that I hurt you, baby?” He pressed his body against yours, his arousal already more than evident. The anger always got him going.

“Never,” you whispered, and he tugged a little harder. You struggled to catch your breath, to keep from making the sounds you knew he was dying to hear. He liked it this way; he liked having to work for it.

“You do, don’t you?” he growled, right next to your ear. “You tell them that. Tell them that I’m mean. That I hurt you. But I bet… I bet you don’t tell them how much you _like_ it.” He sunk his teeth into your earlobe to punctuate his words and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips.

He dragged you to the bedroom. Truth be told, you would have followed him there if he let you, but he moved too swiftly and kept his grip too tight to allow you any measure of control. You stumbled along, losing one shoe before even leaving the kitchen and the other in the hallway before he pulled you through the door and threw you down on his bed.

It would always be _his_ bed. You lived there, cooked and cleaned for him; your name was on the mailbox and you had your own keys. But it wasn’t yours. It would never be yours. Everything there belonged to Ransom and Ransom alone -- including you.

He yanked the skirt of the light sundress you were wearing up and over your hips, not even bothering to push your panties down, just shoving the soaked silky fabric aside. You hadn’t even been able to sit up on the bed before he was on top of you, his jeans unbuttoned and kicked down just enough to free his hardened cock. He thrust inside of you without warning and you both groaned at the sensation.

Ransom was rough and ruthless. He held you down and pounded into you like a jackhammer, no hesitation and no care for what it might do to you. He simply took what he wanted, like he always did, and expected you to give it to him.

But not without a _fight_.

You struggled. You pushed weakly at his shoulders and he laughed between his groan, rocking forward even harder just to make you gasp. When he kissed you, it was rough and claiming. He bit at your lips, demanding entry without words, and you gave in, letting him lick into your mouth and suck at your lip all he wanted.

“Can’t tell me you don’t want this,” he growled. “Can’t tell me you don’t _like_ it.”

“I… I don… I don’t,” you gasped out, not even realizing that you were gripping your fingers into the loose weave of the sweater he still wore. “I don’t, Ransom, I don’t, I don’t want…”

He grabbed your hips and dragged your body closer, nearly knocking the breath out of you. “The hell you don’t,” Ransom whispered, sweat beading on his forehead. “Dirty little slut. This is all you really want. No fucking job. No fucking friends. Just this… just me…”

You shook your head, wanting to deny it; tears pricked at the corners of your eyes even as the pressure began to build inside of you. Ransom was almost too big, his cock filling you completely and hitting every lively nerve-ending inside of you, lighting your body up from the inside and making you squirm even as you tried half-heartedly to push away. You hadn’t even realized it when you wrapped your legs around his waist, making him laugh through his effort.

“See what I mean?” he whispered, the words dropped in a voice so low that it seemed a share secret between the two of you. “You want it so bad, don’t you baby? You fucking _need_ it.”

“Ransom!” you gasped out, holding onto him as tight as you could. He’d moved just a little, changed the angle just right to send you so close to the edge you could taste it. “Ransom, please… please, I need…”

He arched an eyebrow. “Say it,” he demanded.

You shook your head against the pillow and squeezed your eyes shut. “No!” you replied.

“Say it, baby,” he insisted, his pace beginning to slow. “Say it, and I’ll let you come.”

“No!” you said again, groaning in frustration. One strong hand reached up to encircle your throat, at first just resting there as he slowed almost to a stop and you whined and mewled, needing the release that was just out of your grasp.

“You’re gonna fucking say it,” Ransom told you, beginning to tighten his grip. “You fucking say it and I’ll let you come.”

Your back arched against the sheets and he began to thrust in earnest once again, his grip growing ever tighter on your throat until he had cut off your air almost completely. The world began to swim in and out of focus and you could feel the pressure mounting inside you once again, tendrils of pleasure reaching out from your core to light in your fingertips and the peaks of your breasts, your body demanding release.

“I…!” you choked out. “I… fuck, Ransom! I love you! I fucking love you!”

Ransom slammed inside you harder and harder, biting into your shoulder as the words left your mouth and spilling himself deep within you as you tightened around him, your body spasming with your own orgasm. He rode it out with a few more half-hearted thrusts before rolling off of you and onto his back, laughin. You didn’t move at first, just gasping to catch your breath; you barely felt the slow trickle of blood at your shoulder.

He turned his head towards you on the pillow, a smirk on his lips. “Fucking pathetic,” he told you.

You glared back. “I don’t mean it,” you snapped, still feeling too tired and wasted to move. “I don’t fucking mean it. It’s just… it’s something that people say, something that slips out. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Ransom, the bastard that he was, laughed. “Sure you don’t,” he told you. “That’s why you can’t seem to keep yourself off my cock.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, moving at last to get out of the bed, but his arm shot out, pulling you back. You stayed still while he peeled off his sweater and the t-shirt beneath, then helped you do the same with your dress, bra, and ruined panties.

“Get over here,” he said when he finished, gripping you close against his chest before reaching to pull the blanket up over you both. “Shut that smart mouth of yours and maybe if you’re good, I’ll fuck it later.” He laughed again when he felt you shiver against him at the prospect.

You did love him, that was the real pity of it. He was cruel and violent and mean, and you loved him in spite of it all; you loved him with everything you had. He’d never feel the same. Ransom was broken at the core, he could never really love anyone, not the way normal people do. But he _owned_ you. That would always be enough.


End file.
